


The Quiet Ones

by AnotherAnon0



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Belts, Boot Worship, Dark, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Face Slapping, Gags, Gang Rape, Good and Evil, HELP: THIS IS A LOT, Head Injury, Homophobic Language, Humiliation, Light BDSM, M/M, Mental Instability, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Nude Photos, Oral Sex, Psychological Torture, Punishment, Rape, Revenge, Rope Bondage, Sexual Coercion, Shibari, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, Verbal Abuse, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24250942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherAnon0/pseuds/AnotherAnon0
Summary: Mikhail Victor is a good man.Until he isn't.(I challenged myself to write a convincing, non-AU Dark/Evil!Mikhail and boy howdy here it is)~* Chapter 6 now up!
Relationships: Nicholai Ginovaef | Nikolai Zinoviev/Carlos Oliveira, Nicholai Ginovaef | Nikolai Zinoviev/Mikhail Victor, Nicholai Ginovaef | Nikolai Zinoviev/Murphy Seeker, Nicholai Ginovaef | Nikolai Zinoviev/Sergei Vladimir
Comments: 36
Kudos: 42





	1. Quiet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InkNPixieDust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkNPixieDust/gifts).



"How much did I drink last night?" 

Soft groans and creaks had been escaping Nicholai's lips every few seconds since he'd arrived to the office, his eyes wincing in pain each time the harsh afternoon light in the room shifted even slightly through the wide, sheer-curtain draped window. For the last few minutes, he'd had his head in his hands, cradling his eye sockets with his palms.

"Usual, I think..." Mikhail shrugged, fingers dancing along the edge of the wooden desk before him, "Do you hurt? I have some Sa--"

"No shit."

Mikhail flinched, "-fsprin."

Nicholai extended an unsympathetic, demanding hand across the glossy, paperwork-covered surface, one palm still buried against his bowed head. 

The Captain pursed his lips, silently shuffling his chair back and slowly opening the drawer that rolled out from the centre of his desk. The dangling metal handle clicked with a chipper _ting_. He didn't open it all of the way. Just enough to reach his hand inside and feel for the small bottle he always kept on hand.

Though it was only agape but a few inches, Mikhail could see the mess of polaroids that had shifted over the course of the day's opening and closing, spilling from the neat stack he'd made of them at the back corner of the drawer. He suppressed a smile as the memories associated with the topmost photo glossily glaring up at him began to flood behind his eyes. His fingers continued to probe the drawer's contents until he heard the familiar sound of rattling.

The Safsprin. 

"Here..." Mikhail pulled the small, glass bottle from the drawer, quickly closing it as he did, and handed it to Nicholai, who eagerly began fiddling with the green cap. The Captain watched intently as the younger man dry-swallowed two of the white tablets, sighing in relief to have something in his body that might combat the headache he was experiencing.

"Have you slept, comrade?" Mikhail said softly, folding his hands over the short stack of documents before him, "If you don't mind me saying, you don't loo--."

"I do mind you saying." Nicholai snarled, brow furrowed and lip cocked in derision. 

Mikhail nodded subserviently, "I don't want you to be ill. That is all."

"I am not!" The younger man barked, wincing as his volume triggered the drum of pain behind his eyes. His voice fizzled to a mutter, "I just... my head has hurt so much lately."

"Have you seen the medic?" 

" _Nyet_."

"Perhaps you should." Mikhail asserted flatly, raising an eyebrow as he cautiously persisted, "Mission orders could come any day now, the _polknovik_ says _._ "

Nicholai sighed, again returning his heavy head to his hands, a whisper slipping past his palms. "I don't know what's going on with me. It feels like i... hit my head."

A moment of silence passed between them. The Sergeant's eyes still cast into his hands, Mikhail used the moment of relative privacy to assess the younger man under in the safety of his diverted attention.

Nicholai's skin was paler than it usually was -- sallow and pallor. His fingers trembled above webs of green and blue veins, now perfectly visible beneath the greying flesh. His breathing was ragged and pained. While his eyes were obscured, Mikhail had been taking in the red rings flaming out below them the whole day. 

He looked practically undead.

"I think I will go to my room for a few hours of sleep..." Nicholai said, dropping his hands, voice hushed, "I will come back later to finish this." 

Mikhail nodded intently, "This is a good idea."

_A perfect one, actually._

"Only water or juice when you do. No vodka tonight." He continued, dropping his voice slightly in a performative concern he knew Nicholai would immediately reject the conditions of.

"You aren't my father." Nicholai snapped, groaning as he rose from his chair.

_Too easy._

Mikhail's lip twitched, corners pulling fully into the smirk he'd been suppressing once the younger man's back was towards him.

"Then I'll put it in the freezer, comrade."

~

The drugs were taking a bit longer to work now. Nicholai was building a tolerance. 

He knew he was going to have less time with him tonight, a thought that made his lip twist in amused disappointment. 

Next time, Mikhail resolved, he would give him double the dose. 

Nicholai was lying on the floor -- precisely where he'd collapsed. Tonight he went down particularly hard, forcing Mikhail to check his head for an injury. A small bit of blood had trickled from his long, straight nose, but external damage was all the older man cared about.

Sitting in his chair overlooking the pathetic sight, Mikhail brought his boots up to rest on the younger man's chest, using him as a makeshift footstool. His eyes began tracing the contours of Nicholai's paler-than-usual body. He was already fully undressed, his fatigue pants and dark undershirt having been cast away unceremoniously almost immediately after he'd passed out, ripped off by rough hands displaying a level of perverse expertise. 

But this wasn't about sex.

He never _used_ him, as much as he admitted to himself that the _aftermath_ would have made an excellent photo for his collection.

Mikhail's eyes were fixated on an invisible bullseye on the wall across from him. Idly, his heels were digging into Nicholai's sternum, the grinding flesh causing murmurs of pain to flutter through the man's slightly parted lips.

"I was Captain in _Sovetskaya Sukhoputnye Voyska_ , _Nikolya_." He said flatly, lifting his glass to his lips and taking a short sip of the caustic liquor with a sigh, "20 years of service."

He took a deep breath through his nose, a pensive, almost saddened smile crossing his lips, "Now I am here. Babysitting amateur cowboys and taking shit from pricks who have no respect for authority..." He cast his gaze downwards at the semi-conscious form, the smile dropping abruptly, "...like **_you_**."

"I know you like to think you are so much better than me..." Mikhail muttered, slowly setting the crystal lowball down on the table beside him, "You were _osnaz_ , yes, yes. I was just _lowly_ Red guard."

He grunted when he got up, grounding one boot on the floor while maintaining a steady sole against Nicholai's chest. When he leaned down to bring his face closer to the younger man's, the weight of his body fell into the leg that was firmly planted on Nicholai's ribcage, prompting an unconscious, breathy squeak to flutter forth from his lips. 

"But I _worked_ for _everything_ I had." Mikhail spat venomously, lip cocked in disgust, "I didn't just get _hauled along_ by someone who took a _liking_ to me." 

Mikhail stood to his full height again, stepping away from Nicholai's body slowly and momentarily pausing to watch the angry, red imprint of his tread blossom over his sternum like a cruel rose lying on a pale stone. The Captain stepped over Nicholai's body, moving towards the opposite end of the room.

The large, crowded bookcase at the back of the office had a drawer at the bottom.

No one ever noticed the small lock on the drawer when they were perusing the old Russian texts stuffed on the wooden shelves. No one ever asked what was in the drawer. 

"I always wonder why Sergei _did_ haul you along." He sighed, licking his lips and pulling the small, silver key from his back pocket as he continued the one-sided conversation with the man incapable of understanding or replying, "What did you do? Hm? Fuck him?"

The lock opened with the clank of a releasing bolt. It slowly slid out with a muted groan, protesting the activity in its age.

Dipping his hand into the drawer, Mikhail began searching for inspiration. 

"Are you just such a morally dead demon that he could rely on you to do anything he wanted?" 

His hand stopped, fingers dancing over shiny, red leather. 

"Or... both?"

A small bundle of rope accompanied his selection of the gag. 

Cautious of time, tonight would be simple.

The ball was a bit large for Nicholai, his jaw's idle resistance of it was always something that made Mikhail chuckle. 

"You talk so much but have such a small mouth." He smiled, turning Nicholai's head so he could buckle the thick leather strap of the gag. He knew he had made it far tighter than he should have. The younger man's jawbone clicked as the ball set itself deeper and deeper between his teeth.

Thin, harsh rope wove around Nicholai's wrists, one at a time. The brown-coloured jute striking an abusive contrast against the man's pale wrists, which Mikhail crossed over one another delicately. They fell at his belly after the final knot was tied, the older man being cautious not too make the ties too tight for fear of leaving obvious marks that would linger. 

Standing to assess his work, Mikhail felt a satisfied sigh escape his lips. Drool was beginning to spill out of the corner of the younger man's mouth, spreading down his cheeks and coating them in a gelatinous glean. He moved down towards Nicholai's ankles, planting a harsh boot between them and delivering the few kicks necessary to spread his thick, muscular thighs.

" _Ideeln'y_."

The drawer offered him a final object: His old polaroid camera. 

_Souviners._

"It would be so much better if you were like this all of the time, _Nikolya_." Mikhail grinned, holding the camera to his eye, "So much better for everyone."

_Click._

~

"I swear on my mother if I don't get some real food I'm going to fuckin' stab someone." Carlos muttered the last part of his playful prod, grabbing a bottle of water from the cooler as Tyrell perused the canteen offerings, "I miss Brazil. _Picanha. Acarajé. Feijoada_!" 

The other man laughed, sliding his tray along the steel counter and plucking whatever dishes seemed acceptable on a first glance, "Better than prison food, man."

"Speak for wherever you're from."

Tyrell turned to Carlos after grabbing a slice of pie, scoffing a smile, "In Suriname? They used to feed u--" The younger man stopped sort, his eyes suddenly shifting over his friend's shoulder, "Captain Victor!" 

Mikhail was standing just feet away down the canteen line, accepting a bowl of soup directly from the white-clad woman behind the buffet partition. The older man smiled jovially when his name was called, beaming at the two young mercenaries in greeting. 

"Hello, Tyrell -- and Carlos." The young Brazilian quickly mocked a salute when the Captain's bright eyes flashed towards him, "How can I help you?"

"Do you know where Sergeant Zinoviev is at? Gotta talk to him about something." Tyrell shrugged, "Been lookin' for him all day."

"Oh..." Mikhail's face suddenly dropped, cheeks relaxing from their familiar, rosey smile, "Sergeant is... not well." 

"Shit." Carlos murmured, eyebrows cocking in surprise, "Everything okay?"

The Russian nodded, chipper smile returning, "Yes, I am sure he will be fine! Our Nicholai is very resilient, as we all know." Mikhail chuckled, holding up the bowl, "I am going to bring him food now. I had the kitchen make him some very light broth."

As the Captain left, the two men exchanged whimsical glances at each other, Tyrell's lips pulling into a huge, white grin as he continued down the buffet line, "Man, Mikhail is so damn _nice_." 

"America's sweetheart."

"I want him to make me pierogies and wrap me in a fur blankie."

Carlos spit out some of the water he had just taken a sip of, rapidly bringing his forearm to his lip to contain and wipe the mess.

"But really! He doesn't seem... All that bad. You know what I mean?" Tyrell turned towards the busy mess hall, scanning the tables in hopes of surveying one that was unoccupied, "Like, he doesn't seem like a cold-blooded killer, you know? He 'aint like us."

"Well you know what they say." Carlos sighed, plucking a french-fry off of Tyrell's platter, prompting a gasp of righteous indignation.

"It's the quiet ones you gotta' watch out for."


	2. Quieter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mikhail reveals what he has been doing.

Nicholai felt bile bubble at the back of his throat, eliciting a familiar, acidic burn and caustic smell that infected his sinuses. 

"Y-you fucki..."

He began but couldn't finish, voice trembling, raspy, interpolated by sharp draws of breath through flared nostrils. 

_Rage._

The photo shook between his quaking fingers, the glossy polaroid collapsing slightly around the furiously tight grip of his thumb, causing crinkles in the laminated film. His head was swarming with the deepest throb, ears ringing.

He'd been in bed for three days, weaving in and out of the worst pain he'd ever experienced outside the battlefield, suffering with a screaming head, hazy eyes, and churning stomach that he tried to tell himself had just been a horrible flu. The pounding was getting worse every moment his eyes darted across the small polaroid. He thought his skull wanted to crack open.

Nicholai brought a shaky hand to his clammy forehead, feeling the cool sweat that had accumulated there, eyes still fixated on the photo. 

His hand fell to his chest, lingering over the little 'rash' that had emerged just below his left breast, one he hadn't been able to make sense of. One that blossomed just as he _fell_ ill. Fingers shifted to dance over the reflected point in the photo, where a harsh, intricately-fixed rope had been knotted across his ribcage.

_A rope-burn. Not a rash._

It was hard to look at him, the familiar figure sitting across from his bed in the simple chair. The orange glow of late afternoon beamed in through the room's shuttered blinds, casting a dim, but warm light over his rosey skin. His feet were crossed at the ankles, left elbow propped on the wooden arm of the chair, cheek sitting on his fist in a playful projection. 

He was smiling.

"You can cry if you want to."

" ** _Fuck_** you." Nicholai spat viciously, dropping the hand that had been cradling his head. It made a soft bellow against the white sheets, "I... I'm going t-"

Mikhail chuckled, interrupting the younger man's attempted venom with a dismissive wave, "You can't tell Sergei and you know that. He's not sympathetic. He'd think you _incompetent_."

The younger man's lip twitched, eyes glassy with outrage. He flinched as he accepted the words into his pained mind. They absorbed without resistance. He knew Mikhail was right. 

"And no one else will believe you, will they?" The Captain took a deep breath through his nose, nodding slowly as he began a cold assessment of the situation as though he were an auditor calculating one he had no involvement in, "There are pictures, yes... If you were willing to _humiliate_ yourself, you could show them, if you chose."

A smirk pulled Mikhail's cheeks into their familiar, rosey balls. This time it was cruel. "But I don't think it matters... Because everyone **_hates_** you anyway."

Nicholai felt a gasp hitch in his throat. He cast the polaroid off of the bed aggressively, grabbing his head with both hands again as it began to quake with pain and anxiety.

"Not enjoyable to be at the mercy of someone's torment, is it, _comrade_?" Mikhail was speaking softly, voice a tender hum, "With no recourse at all, hm?" He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth sweetly in mock-sympathy.

The room felt silent. Mikhail traced the contour of Nicholai's linen-draped legs with his eyes. 

"What do you want from me..?" The winced, hitched voice that broke the emptiness of sound was quiet, breathy, "Money?"

"No, no..." Mikhail huffed a laugh, "Not everyone is as concerned with such things."

"D... did yo..."

"Yes." A quick, curt lie. One manufactured to prompt the response the Captain had been seeking. Nicholai's hands fell to his chest as a few desperate, ragged sobs escaped his lips, tears finally cascading down his flushed cheeks. Mikhail knew they weren't ones of sadness, but of abject mortification and outrage. 

A psychological game of cat and mouse.

"I can see you are deeply pained, _Nikolya_. This makes me feel shame." He said with a sigh, "Perhaps you are right that something must be done."

Rising from the chair with a groan, Mikhail stopped to pick up the polaroid Nicholai had discarded in anger. He remained crouched, squatting just beside the younger man's bed, looking up at the anxiety-ridden sight with pensive amusement. 

"Perhaps we _should_ speak to Colonel Vladimir. I could send him the phot--"

The reaction was instantaneous. Anguished. Gasping. Begging.

"No! No!" The humiliation plastered on Nicholai's reddened face became even more perverse as the desperate, whiny plea escaped his lips without censorship, "Please..."

Mikhail nodded slowly, pursing his lips in a comical facsimile of concern as he glanced down at the photo he'd collected from the floor. 

"Would you like to see the rest of my pictures?"

Silence.

"I wanted to show you this one first because it was the night I managed to get the ropes to look perfect." Mikhail beamed proudly, "There's a Japanese name for it... I can't quite remember. _Shi_ \-- something." He waved a hand dismissively as the word escaped him.

Mikhail procured another polaroid from his front pocket, assessing it for a moment with a wide grin before holding it up towards the younger man. 

Nicholai's unmoving, bowed gaze was cast into his sheets.

_Broken._

"But you looked just as contented with the leather straps as you did with the ropes..." He said, finger rasping against the laminate front of the photo, forcing Nicholai to turn and note the boot in the frame, cruelly placed on his most intimate area.

The barracks medical staff came quite quickly after Mikhail called for them; The doctor, a nurse, and a cleaner who immediately began disposing of Nicholai's vomit-ridden sheets while the medic doted over the younger man's shaky attempts to sip down infantile amounts of lukewarm water. 

"I feel so bad..." Mikhail murmured to the nurse who was standing by, waiting for instruction. He wrung his hands at his waist, "I should not have bothered him."

The nurse smiled softly, raising a chubby hand to the older man's arm to rub it soothingly, "You were just trying to make sure Sergeant Zinoviev was okay. No shame in that."

"I want him to be well... Do you think he will be okay?" He turned to the woman, whose green eyes were radiating affection.

"Of course. Nothing some sleep and medicine can't fix." She nodded, sighing gently, "He is very lucky to have someone who cares about him so much. If only we were all so lucky to have someone like you, Captain Victor."

Mikhail's eyes flicked towards the younger man; the outraged, pained blue crashing against him like furious ocean waves, penetrating hatred beaming over the shoulder of the doctor who was crouched before him. Their eyes locked.

"If only." He repeated casually, knowing _she_ wouldn't be able to distinguish the cruel smirk crossing his lips for one of his typical, jovial grins.

But Nicholai could. And that's all that mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to xXxBishopxXx for prompting this second chapter. <3
> 
> PS: "Shibari" was the Japanese name Mikhail was looking for.


	3. Silence (Irreversible)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicholai wants to remember.

"You only have one decision to make... and that is whether to remember or not."

Nicholai stared down at the pill blankly, the white striking a devious contrast against the dark wood of the desk. It sat next to a glass of vodka, as it always did. 

"You always act as though there are more to be made." Mikhail sighed, reaching for his own lowball of the liquor. "But there is nothing else."

The incident in the younger man's dorm room was followed by a brief period of silent respite, then a short mission in Egypt deferred their meetings further. He'd waited almost two weeks to begin calling Nicholai to his office after they'd returned from the quick B.O.W containment operation. He was sure the younger man likely believed the ordeal to have apexed and fizzled. 

"Every time I take it I get ill!" Nicholai suddenly spat, breaking the short hum of nothingness that had filled the room. His hands were wringing in his lap, squirming uncomfortably. He didn't look up.

The first night he was called upon, the Sergeant eagerly swallowed the pill without a thought.

The second, there was a hesitation.

The third, even more. But he had always, eventually, popped the unconsciousness-inducing drug into his mouth. 

Tonight, Nicholai had simply prodded the tablet with a cautious index finger before falling silent.

The silence was lingering longer than Mikhail wanted it to, but he allowed it, taking the moments to savour the expression on the younger man's pale face. Disgust mixed with denigration. Fury and tepid vulnerability. Fear, cautiousness, impotent outrage.

"Then don't take it." Mikhail finally shrugged, "I am being generous, giving you the option."

Nicholai grabbed the glass of vodka before him, downing the lowball in a single, expert chug. The pill remained on the desk.

"I don't want my head to hurt anymore." He muttered, standing quickly from where he was seated, just across from Mikhail, raising his hands at his sides in pessimistic abandon, "Just get this over with. What do I _do_?"

The Captain smiled smugly at the reluctant, but guaranteed, submission. Tonight would be unique -- an injection of curiosity into what had become the mundane chore of punishment. Confidently, he didn't bother mulling over what it would be like to have a conscious Nicholai at his feet, or how it might be different from the past month of accumulated abuses. He knew he was moments away from all of the answers he wanted.

"Undress."

A curt order which prompted a scoff of derision, but Nicholai's hands began to work regardless. Boots were unlaced first, and set below the desk neatly. The light fatigue jacket was disposed of on the chair, and the grey sweater quickly followed. His hesitating, slightly quivering fingers lingered momentarily over his belt, and Mikhail noticed the flinch of disgust twitch through the other man's face. He shot his glance across to the other side of the room as he began frantically, finally slipping his belt from its loops and tossing it to to the floor before dropping his dark green trousers. A jagged, turgid stare from Mikhail - one met with a scoff of disbelief - silently ordered the black briefs away.

The wave of shame flushing across Nicholai's cheeks was practically audible as he stood before the desk, fully naked.

They shared a silent moment, Nicholai attempting to look anywhere but at Mikhail, whose eyes were firmly fixated on him, a cruel smirk pulling at his lips. 

They shared a silent thought, knowing the greatest humiliation was that he had done it to _himself_.

"Knees. Middle of the floor."

Nicholai made a haphazard attempt at covering himself as he kneeled on the Georgian area rug, one arm draped over his hips in anxious indignity, fingers tapping against his muscular thigh idly while Mikhail made his way to the bookcase behind him. Shivers electrocuted his spine with every noise that interrupted the silence of the room -- a lock unlocking, a drawer rolling open, the idle shuffling and clinking of unidentified objects. His body already knew those noises- it had heard them numerous times - even if he was consciously taking them in for the first time.

The drawer slammed shut. Four steps and he knew Mikhail was behind him, crouching down. He could even feel the older man's breath softly comb against the back of his neck. 

"Arms." Mikhail ordered, "Sit up straight."

Nicholai yelped in pain as Mikhail roughly handled him, shoulder blades folding over painfully as they were stretched back, the older man meeting his elbows together at the centre of his back. A rough, untreated material suddenly scratched against his skin, causing him to bristle a whimper. 

"It's rope." Mikhail offered, expertly tying a slipknot at the centre of the two arms and pulling them together, "Surely your pain tolerance isn't _that_ bad?"

" _ **Fuck**_ you."

"You keep asking, _Nikolya..._ "

Nicholai gasped in abject fury, biting down on his bottom lip as Mikhail looped the rope around again, tightening the first knot and creating another. 

"I'm not a faggot." He snarled through the discomfort, "Like _**you**_."

Mikhail laughed jovially, continuing his handiwork. Every inch, a new loop, and a new knot -- squeezing Nicholai's forearms closed in a stress position. He didn't need to worry about leaving lingering marks now. 

"I am married! I have a wife." He smiled, stopping for a moment to poke his head over Nicholai's shoulder comically, " _ **You**_ are the one who is fucking Sergei."

"I **_never_** \-- never did such a thing!" Nicholai panted, grimacing in pain as Mikhail tightened the knots between his elbows.

"Liar."

" _You_ all tell lies about _me_..." He rolled his head back in an attempt to relieve some of the already-numbing tension pulsating through his strained shoulders.

Mikhail scoffed, tying the final knot, one nestled at the younger man's wrists, "You were not a Sergeant in _osnaz_." He said flatly, "Sergei is a by-the-book man, if there ever was one. Maybe not morally, but on military matters..." The Captain rose, stepping to Nicholai's front slowly so he could look down upon him smugly.

"We all kept our old ranks except for you... And those little trips logged to his office at the main facility? Hm? What are we supposed to think?"

Nicholai rapidly cast his attention at the carpet, lips silently twitching a response that never he never uttered.

"Stop lying to yourself." Mikhail muttered frankly, crouching down over Nicholai's knees until his nose was inches away from the younger man's face, "I know your kind. I dealt with dozens of you when I was in Red Army."

Mikhail watched Nicholai's eyes desperately try to avoid his. He'd swallow the little flashes of blue when they flicked up towards him, capturing them in his steeled, stern gaze.

" _Pathetic_ creatures who would do anything to get ahead." He smirked, scoffing a cruel laugh, "You are the _worst_ example of a Russian soldier."

"And what are you?" Nicholai sneered softly, lip cocked in a defensive snarl. He was wiggling slightly as pain shot through his spine, tied arms stressing his muscles and tiring his bones, "So high and mighty? Look at what _you_ are doing."

The older man grunted as he stood to his full height. He mulled the question for a moment, rubbing his lips together as the words danced around in the air, wading through the momentary silence. The younger man was looking up at him, eyebrows furrowed and nose crinkled in disgust. Mikhail took a deep breath, a wide grin pulling at his cheeks when words finally manifested at the back of his throat.

"You **_deserve_** it." 

The curt answer caused Nicholai's eyes to widen slightly, venomous expression quivering. 

"You're a _podkhalim_." Mikhail sighed, a smug, contented tone infecting his deep voice, "So do it."

Silence. Nicholai looked up at him with a mix of confusion and anger warring across his pale features.

Mikhail knew he could have forced him. Grabbed a fistful of his short, silver hair and shoved him towards the floor roughly.

But he didn't.

The Captain simply waited in silence, arms crossed across his chest harshly, concrete-solid gaze locked on the younger man as he digested the order. A huff of derisive breath escaped his nose before Nicholai leaned down, quickly realising that without the use of his arms he'd have to adjust his position in order to dip deeper without falling over. Parting his thighs slightly, he managed to get enough barring that the short drop to Mikhail's left boot wasn't entirely unsuccessful. A bit of shakiness, readjusting his knees further behind him once his face made contact with the thick leather steadied his awkward position.

" _Oblizyvaniye_."

He knew he didn't have to say it, the words slipping from his lips just as Nicholai's tongue made contact with the toe of his boot. But the breathy mutter spilling forth primally evoked a sensation in him he hadn't felt since the first moment he dropped the peculiar white tablet in Nicholai's drink, that night one month ago -- an aroused excitement exclusive to the execution of _raw power_.

Mikhail suppressed a groan, watching intently as Nicholai's head bobbed over his boot slowly, glistening layers of saliva reflecting the dim light of the office every time the younger man receded to the tip to start again. The soft, moist sounds were delicately tickling the Captain's ear, delighting him in ways he didn't imagine they would. 

" _Khoroshiy mal'chik_..." The near-moan was involuntary, but Mikhail sighed off the misstep, chuckling when glassy, blue eyes pathetically attempted to leer at him from the floor.

" _Khoroshaya sukh_! You are doing what you are best at, yes?" He smirked, "Always licking boots. No wonder why Sergei's are so shiny!"

"Shut the fuck up!" Nicholai growled, practically seething in fury. Having shifted his legs away from his centre of gravity, sitting up was difficult, and his head remained bowed low to the ground as he shot a venomous glare up at his superior.

It made it easier for Mikhail to quickly slip his boot out from under Nicholai's chin and set it atop his head, pushing the younger man's forehead into the ground abruptly, but with enough caution as to not cause an injury. Nicholai gasped when his forehead and cheek came into contact with the carpet, his vision now totally obscured by the tread of Mikhail's boot.

"Sensitive about the Colonel, mh?" The Captain chuckled, "A bit **_too_** sensitive?"

Mikhail sighed deeply, "I think you are abusing my generosity in giving you the option of the pill..." He began, clicking his tongue, "I would rather not have to listen to your stupidity, _Nikolya_." 

He listened to Nicholai's heavy breathing for a moment, watching the younger man's back contract and expand with the rapid, shaky breaths. Surely, Mikhail figured, it was causing his shoulders even more pain and stress.

"Keep your head against the floor." Mikhail said flatly, lifting his boot away slowly and taking a few steps around the younger man's body until he was standing behind him. He scooped a hand beneath Nicholai's hipbone, a touch which caused the younger man to shudder visibly, and began manipulating his hips until they were sufficiently raised. Nicholai complied with the silent manoeuvring, breaths muffled against the carpet as he strained. 

"As much as I would enjoy correcting you, _Nikolya_... I do not believe you will ever be properly taught." Mikhail began, leaning down to grab the belt Nicholai had discarded while getting undressed, one that had been dropped nearby. "You are a lost cause... I cannot stop you from wreaking whatever havoc you will inevitably wreak on the world because you are an entitled, petulant child."

He doubled the leather strap over, looping the end over his fist tightly. 

"But in **_my_** barracks you will treat **_me_** with respect."

The first, harsh strike was unannounced and unanticipated, causing Nicholai to yelp in pain. The belt fell in a razor-edge straight line along the younger man's buttocks, just barely licking the small of his back.

"And you will treat _**my** **men**_ with respect."

The second strike struck even louder as Mikhail made an effort to drive as much force through the leather as he could muster. Nicholai's gasp of white-hot pain reflected his effort, the younger man digging his forehead into the carpet in a writhe of anguish.

" ** _Or_** I will turn you into a platoon's **_cock-sleeve_**."

The third strike left an immediate welt on the reddening flesh, one Mikhail was certain would blister by morning. 

"Do you understand me?"

Barely a moment was given for Nicholai to respond before a fourth strike was planted, every attempt at breath catching in the younger man's throat. Bursts of fire began bubbling up his back like lava. His shoulders and arms were numbly pulsating under the steadily increasing restriction of the ropes, knots tightening as he writhed in pain.

"Do you?!"

"Y--"

An answer was interrupted by another strike. Nicholai's flesh was darkening to a beet-red under the strength of the lashes, the older man making no attempt to curtail the strength coursing through his arm.

"YES! YES!!" Nicholai screamed abruptly, not bothering to wait for the question to be posed to him. His voice was quivering, raspy, moist. The anxiety and fear laced into the curt words immediately drew a smirk on Mikhail's rose-flushed face.

The belt was tossed aside unceremoniously. Mikhail reached to his desk to grab the polaroid camera he'd plucked from his special drawer earlier, one which had been quietly watching the scenes unfold like a voyeur. He brought it to his eye, watching the scene through the viewfinder silently for a moment.

Nicholai was breathing into the carpet, tiny shakes of humiliation and pain wracking his body every few seconds. His arms were trembling within their rope-laced cage, hovering just above his back, off-coloured hands suggesting he was lacking circulation. His bottom was slowly blossoming into a darkly patterned tapestry of red, blue, and purple. The bruises and blisters would mature fully over the coming hours, and Mikhail savoured the thought that Nicholai would be suffering with them for days.

"It would be better for everyone if you were like this all of the time, _Nikolya_..." 

They were words he'd muttered to the unconscious form of the man before, each time certain he'd seen _the_ perfected state the sentence beckoned and prayed Nicholai be permanently confined within. Each time, he was proven wrong, another inevitably emerging which offered _that much more_ vulnerability, abandon, martyrdom.

But Mikhail wasn't sure how Nicholai was going to get any more perfect than he was in that moment.

"... So much better for everyone." 

_Click._

Mikhail began fingering the knots, trying to loosen them. They had become tighter over the course of the night's struggling, and he rapidly realised he would have to cut the rope off to free Nicholai's lavender-tinted arms. A UBCS-issue dagger was readily available in his desk drawer, and the sharp blade made quick work of the jute.

"This was more fun than it usually is, _Nikolya_... _Spasiba_!" 

Nicholai's shoulders cracked after they were liberated from the constrained position they had held for far too long, his arms falling to his sides weakly as circulation finally pulsed through them. The younger man whimpered as the sharp, familiar tingle of sensation began to creep through the disfigured flesh, rings of red and harsh blue indented into the normally pale canvas. 

The older man sat on the nearby armchair, watching Nicholai take stock of the damage to his arms. A silence settled in the room. It was thick, palpable, but short-lived.

"What do you normally do...?" Mikhail was surprised when the words were spoken, a soft murmur fluttering out of Nicholai's dry lips, "What did you do to me yesterday?"

"Yesterday?" The Captain chuckled, tapping his finger on his chin comically, "These past few days, really..."

"Mm..." Nicholai was steeling himself for the response -- one he had imagined would contain innumerable humiliations, cruelties, and abuses. His breaths become deeper and deeper as a tangible silence began to set in the room again. Mikhail sighed loudly, clicking his tongue against his lips.

" _Nothing_." 

Blue eyes snapped towards him rapidly, pain-filled empty stare transmuting into one of silent, anxious confusion.

"I just wanted you to get some sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First! Translations:
> 
> "Podkhalim/подхалим" = Bootlicker (definition: Someone who tries to please those in power to get ahead/gain favour)
> 
> "oblizyvaniye/облизывание" = Lick.
> 
> "khoroshiy mal'chik/хороший мальчик" = Good boy 
> 
> "khoroshaya suka/хорошая сука" = Good bitch 
> 
> ~
> 
> I SAID this was NOT going to be a series and it is not going to be BUT I could not resist one last chapter as the spirit moved me. THAT IS IT. IT IS DONE.
> 
> *cries*
> 
> EDIT: it might not actually be done.


	4. I. Suppression, II. Respect III. Solution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murphy and Carlos have differing opinions on Nicholai's training, presented in three acts.

**i. SUPPRESSION**

They called it the _**miracle flu.**_

Ever since Nicholai had spent nearly a week in bed with a mysterious illness, one which gossip across the barracks told had caused him to vomit all over his bedsheets, the Sergeant had been distinctly… different.

While he still stalked the halls with a vulgar aggression that sent mercenaries fleeing in the opposite direction, the Russian’s behavior had become markedly muted in training. The bombastic swagger had been curtailed, reserved, and his routine outbursts of anger had dissipated into an almost-distant memory.

“Maybe Cap’ put the fear of God inno’ him.” Murphy had said to Carlos, the two men spending an idle moment watching Nicholai through the window of the canteen, the older man pacing slowly next to the monstrous sequoia tree on the edge of the barracks as he took a solitary smoke break. Twilight was cupping the horizon.

“You don’t think he’s really sick... do you?” Carlos asked, not suppressing the concern purring through the words.

Murphy scoffed in derision, “Hope he is, the bastard.”

“Murph!” Carlos scoffed, playfully punching the other man’s arm, “Don’t be an asshole.”

“ _He_ is the asshole.” The American crossed his arms with a huff, a frown pulling across his thin lips, “You got off easy, but he still loses his shit at me when Cap’ isn’t around.”

“He _what_?”

The sudden injection of a third voice caused both of the young mercenaries to jolt, heads snapping around to meet the unmistakable, raspy voice.

Mikhail was holding a short stack of paperwork against his chest, a quizzical look brushed over his paternal features. Murphy and Carlos gave an informal salute, the American quickly clearing his throat. 

"It's really nothin', Cap'... I shouldn't have said anythin'..."

"No, no... Please tell me what happened." Mikhail invited, head cocked to the side in curiosity. His eyes were soft, welcoming, and brimming with protective concern. 

Murphy shrugged, shoving his hands in his fatigue pockets while casting a look down towards his boots, "Well it was just... Y'know. When we were doing sniping drills in the valley..."

"Mhm."

"He yells at me all the time, is all." The young man sighed, "Tells me how he thinks imma' screw up. Can't do nothing right for him."

Mikhail's tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth sympathetically, "I am apologetic." He murmured, rubbing his lips together while carefully absorbing the information, "I try to be as involved with all of the platoons as I can, but I have 100 men to manage..."

"It ain't your fault, Cap."

"That's just the way he _is_." Carlos suddenly asserted, casting a pressing, clenched jaw at his friend, "He's _always_ been like that. Leave it."

The Captain shook his head, adjusting the documents that were slipping from his grip, " _Nyet_. It is unacceptable."

Murphy shot a quick glance at Carlos, the tip of his tongue sticking out childishly. 

"Would you two boys mind coming to my office tonight?" Mikhail smiled softly. "I have a meeting now, but I would like to discuss this."

Carlos immediately began berating his younger friend the moment the Captain had walked away and was distinctly out of sight.

"What the fuck, man?" He snapped, "You trying to get him fired?!"

"I'd _love_ that, yeah."

The Brazilian rolled his eyes, "Sometimes you just gotta take some shit, dude. You aren't perfect. And he's got more experience!" 

Murphy blew his tongue against his lips quickly, "Fuck that. He's an asshole and deserves whatevers' comin' to him."

Carlos felt the words weigh heavily in his mind, a sense of cryptic malice settling in for reasons he didn't understand.

**II. RESPECT**

Nicholai's calves were bound to his thighs using two lengths of long, thick rope. A _frog_ tie, Mikhail had chipperly told him it was called as he had been exacting his handiwork, 

Knots dotted the line where flesh met flesh, diamond-shaped crosses weaving across the muscular legs tightly, effectively preventing them from seperating or stretching a single inch. The loops were so tight that mounds of soft, firm flesh protruded slightly past the harsh rope lines, filling out the cage-like design in attempted gasps of circulation. His arms were tied at his sides, each wrist being roughly pulled to the knot and loop at the bottom of his calves. 

Murphy ran a cautious hand over Nicholai's right thigh, feeling the webs of rope dipping into the skin, tightened flesh trying to break through. A shiver ran through the younger man's body as he took ahold of a fistful of the exposed skin and _squeezed_ tightly. The Sergeant didn't make a sound in response, but Murphy knew it was because he was holding it in.

Lain on the floor, eyes closed, Nicholai kept his lower body clenched together sternly, clearly trying to retain whatever dignity he could muster to salvage by not letting his thighs part open -- a position that would have been far more comfortable due to the bondage of his legs and knees. Deep, steady breaths through his nose worked him through each moment of anxiety, distracting his swarming, stressful thoughts by focusing his attention to the far recesses of his mind.

Mikhail chuckled when the young mercenary shot him a look swelling with delight and excitement, eyes practically glittering in the dim light of the office. He was uncapping a bottle of fine vodka and pouring himself a glass. 

"He's all yours, my boy." He smiled, but the devious grin that came as a response was interrupted by a loud, intentional throat-clearing bellowing from the corner of the room.

"C... Captain... I-- are you sure this is..." Carlos was fumbling his way through words of concern, normally caramel-golden face flushing a striking beet-red, "I.. Is this okay?"

The elder man cocked his head in mock-confusion, pursing his lips. "Why would it not be okay, Carlos?"

A breathy, awkward laugh huffed past Carlos' full lips, chocolate eyes darting across every inch of the room's floor.

"I just... He- he doesn't look like.. he wants this..."

"Who gives a shit?" Murphy abruptly snapped, not waiting for a response to manifest from Mikhail's lips before kneeling at Nicholai's legs.

"Murph!" Carlos' eyes widened at the sudden display of inhumanity from his friend, his voice lowering to a hitched whisper, "You can't j... just... _do **that**_ to someone..."

"Boys, boys!" Mikhail waved his hand dismissively, drawing the attention back to him. "There is no reason to be worried. I can assure you that Sergeant Zinoviev _enjoys_ this." Mikhail lowered his gaze down towards the man lying on the floor, peering at him from over the desk with a derisive smirk, "Don't you, Sergeant Zinoviev?"

Silence.

Nicholai's breathing was becoming ragged, his attempts to disassociate failing to drown out the abusive conversations happening around him.

"Why don't you assure the boys that you enjoy this, so they can stop worrying, hm?" Mikhail propped his chin on his fist, "Or should we call Colonel Vladimir to as--"

"Yes, yes. I enjoy. Is good." Nicholai spat quickly, degraded English hissing past his teeth dismissively, eyes still clenched shut. His lips began twitching in a grimace of what could only be read as disgust.

Carlos swallowed audibly, Adams apple bobbing over the collar of his green shirt. 

"Good enough for me!" Murphy barked a laugh. He was separating the older man's knees, a devilish expression combing across his freckled face. The young man had gotten viciously aroused the moment they had entered the office, both men registering the dramatic sight in utter silence until Mikhail had invited them for a closer look, and explained he was seeking to _apologise_ for Nicholai's cruel behaviour towards Murphy. He been been painfully, _excruciatingly_ hard since Mikhail explained there would be no recourse for any punishment exacted upon the older man, Murphy's sickest fantasies welling up in his mind and hips. 

Murphy frantically released his manhood from the tension of his UBCS-issued trousers.

He didn't prepare Nicholai, callously penetrating him without so much as a bead of spit to lubricate the rough intrusion; the dry, friction-filled insertion causing the older man's back to arch and buck in pain, a short, throaty yelp escaping his lips. He was grabbing at the ropes binding his wrists to his sides in desperation. 

Murphy leaned into Nicholai's body, using his strong hips as a grip for the thrusting which picked up pace as precum started to flow into the other man's body, slicking the rhythm. The other men in the room were silent, though for very different reasons. Carlos, with his blank stare of shock, lingering in the corner awkwardly as he watched his friend commit the atrocious act; the Captain taking in the sight with a look of pure enjoyment, finger dancing along the rim of his crystal lowball.

Suppressed squeaks of pain and guttural moans filled the small office.

"Sergeant Zinoviev absolutely insisted he was virginal." Mikhail muttered casually, finally bringing the glass of vodka he'd neglected to his lips for a short sip, "Do you think he's innocent, Murphy?"

The younger man gasped a laugh, waves of pleasure beating through his hips as he sunk fully into Nicholai's body. 

"Nah." Murphy sighed contentedly, adjusting his position slightly, "He's tight, but he's been fucked."

"That's what I thought." Mikhail chuckled, downing another, thicker sip of the caustic liquor. 

Nicholai hissed through his teeth, a gasp indistinguishable in origin between the pain of penetration and the verbal humiliation. A flush of red danced over his nose and eyes, pale eyelashes beginning to glimmer with the slightest bit of moisture from between the tightly closed lids. His bottom lip was trembling pathetically as Murphy made his first deep, hard thrusts. 

"Like that, you fuckin' pig?" 

" ** _Fuck_** yo--" Nicholai's attempt at a venomous mutter was interrupted by a brutal backhand beating across his cheek.

Carlos gasped in horror from the corner of the room while Mikhail simply bellowed a laugh, offering a few sarcastic claps.

Nicholai's eyes opened for the first time since they'd entered the room, startled by the sudden slap. The deep-blue were coated in a glaze of tears, reddened and pained. At first, they were directed no where in particular, falling wherever they'd opened towards. A toxic glare was then shifted towards Murphy, the older man's nose crinkling in fury. Murphy's hand rapidly fell around Nicholai's throat. Correction. He stopped thrusting for a moment, leaning down towards the other man's face with a look of brutal aggression. Nicholai gasped, choking as Murphy's nails dug into his neck, squeezing his trachea tightly.

"Don't look at me like that." He taunted sharply, releasing the Sergeant's neck as his face began to turn red.

Nicholai's ragged coughs prompted more jeering from Mikhail, who commended the young mercenary quickly. 

"You are a natural at this, my boy."

Murphy laughed, resuming his hard, deep thrusts, Nicholai's body writhing beneath him in anguish. 

Carlos was incredulous as Mikhail casually thumbed through and signed paperwork on his desk, glancing up only occasionally at the cruel scene playing out before him with a look of unconcerned amusement. 

"Call yourself a whore." Murphy was barking at Nicholai, his thrusts becoming quicker and shallower. When Nicholai didn't immediately respond, another slap was planted against the same cheek. The older man let out a solitary sob, head rolling against the carpet in pain.

"I am a... whore." He whimpered a whisper, closing his eyes tightly again as the lurid words escaped his flushed lips.

"Again!"

Murphy's knuckles made painful contact with his cheekbone again, this time a clear bruise began blossoming under the pale skin. 

"I am a whore!" Nicholai spat, gasping through the sobs that were now wracking his body, repeating the compelled words in an attempt to avoid another backhand. "I am a whore!" 

The younger man came quickly after. Guttural moans of pleasure intersecting unleashed cries, Murphy thrusting himself deep in the older man to empty his seed. The warm deposit in his stomach made Nicholai whimper, lips peeling into a grimace of revulsion as he thought about the other man's DNA absorbing into his body invasively. Bile bubbled at the back of his throat that he quickly swallowed.

"All yours." Murphy sighed contentedly, continuing to kneel between Nicholai's legs as he caught his bearings, mind hazy with the aftereffects of lust.

**III. SOLUTION**

Silence.

Carlos was staring down at Nicholai and Murphy, unblinking eyes and parted lips clearly expressing his abject mortification. The Sergeant was panting in pain and exhaustion, flaccid manhood neglected, laying across the crease of his thigh.

"Hey! 'Los. Snap out of it." Murphy snapped his fingers at the other man in annoyance, demanding he break his trance-like state as he stood.

"I just... I don't think it's right." Carlos murmured, hands wringing at his waist, dodging to his tousle his hair, adjusting his collar, doing any frantic thing they could to keep moving. "It's not right, man."

Murphy plopped down on the reading chair by the bookcase after tucking himself away, sighing in exasperation. "You gonna tell the Cap, then?" 

Silence.

Mikhail beamed, eyes lighting up, "Tell me what, Carlos?"

"Carlos has the hots for Zinoviev." Murphy jeered childishly, prompting an outraged gasp from the Brazilian.

" ** _How could you_**?!" 

Mikhail's jaw dropped open slightly, a wave of shock settling into his rosey features momentarily before a laugh managed to huff its way out from between his gaping lips.

"Really! _Udivitel'no!_ "

"I saw you two in the armoury, that night at the May Day party." The proclamation was almost proud in its loud revelation of the intimate details, Murphy crossing his arms over his chest amateurishly, "He even brought him flowers. How fuckin' precious is that?"

The months-old memory began to pummel through Carlos' head like the worst headache. The bright, purple _cattelya_ orchid Nicholai brought for him had been specially ordered from Brazil, and he'd spent countless minutes with his nose buried in the flower, recalling details of the scent of the rainforest for the older man.

" _These grow like weeds. They're everywhere... ugh, it smells so good after it rains."_

_"It must be beautiful."_

_"What's the national flower of Russia?"_

A togetherness that would never blossom like the delicate flowers they spent the night mulling over, the tiny touches shared between them washing away in time as Nicholai began to withdraw farther and farther from him. He'd cite _professionalism, risk, work, missions, **death**_ \-- any excuse he could when the younger man managed to catch him in a private moment to interrogate him for the sudden coldness, the missed meetings. Carlos knew he had just been afraid. 

Carlos grimaced as a burn in the back of his throat began to tighten at the muscles, eyes twitching, "I can't believe you right now, Murph."

"Some of us are tired of getting pushed around." Murphy's words were pointed and rough. He cast an accusatory finger towards the man on the floor, "This is good for him. He's gotta' learn respect!"

Mikhail downed the remainder of his vodka, a soft smile lingering on his lips as he watched the scene playing out before him. He cast an approving nod at Murphy, licking his bottom lip with a chuckle, "The young Mr. Seeker is right, Carlos." His eyes danced across the room towards the young Brazilian, who was huffing in anxiety, "This is all part of Sergeant's training."

"T-training?"

The Captain nodded slowly, deeply capturing the glassy chocolate eyes. His voice was soft, concerned, and as plastic and artificial as the words that came bubbling from his mouth. "If you don't want to assist, that is fine, of course. I will just have to find someone else." He sighed softly, licking his lips, voice hitching upwards slightly as he attempted to manipulate the other man's emotions, "But... if you _care_ for him."

Carlos was rapidly shifting his gaze from Nicholai to Mikhail, words stuck in his mouth. The man on the floor was entirely silent, eyes still clenched shut. Tears were streaming from the closed lids down his face, wetting the hair just above his ear. He had become an object to discuss and debate, no longer a human to address. Pity welled up in Carlos' gut.

Mikhail clicked his tongue sympathetically, voice hushed. "Would I lie to you? Have I _ever_?"

"No, Sir." Murphy piped up insistently, shooting a caustic glare at his friend, "He literally is the only one who gave a shit 'bout us. You know that, Carlos."

"I... I know..."

The Captain suppressed a smirk, masking it in an expression of confident assurance, "This is the best thing for Sergeant. _Trust me_."

The younger man cautiously moved from the corner of the room. As he stepped around to stand between Nicholai's spread thighs, he could't help. but notice the pale purple-grey tinge that had sunken into his bound hands and legs. He knelt slowly, catching Murphy and Mikhail in his peripheral vision. They were talking, the Captain pouring the younger man a drink, but Carlos' mind was drowning out their conversation as he blanketed his gaze over Nicholai's trembling, naked body.

"Mikhail would never... do anything bad, right?" It was a barely audible whisper, but Nicholai heard it. The Russian scoffed through his expression of disgust and humiliation, biting his bottom lip so as to avoid a response which might draw ire from the Captain. Carlos was nibbling on the inside of his cheek, fingers slowly unbuttoning his fatigue pants.

When he moved to position himself over the other man, looming over him with arms on either side of his shoulders, Nicholai's breathing intensified. Carlos could feel the other man's belly pressing against his with every inhale, warm through his thin t-shirt. A moment of silence passed between them as the younger man assessed the expression on Nicholai's flushed face. 

Anguish. Torment. Embarrassment. The tears were still flowing rapidly, cascading through the dark, reddish circles beneath Nicholai's closed, sleep deprived eyes before dropping off around his temples.

"Just finish." The whisper was raspy, curt, and intended only for Carlos to hear, flowing through barely moving lips, "I want to go."

Carlos steadied his weight on one arm, reaching between them to guide himself to the cum-moistened entrance. He was barely erect, but once his arousal made contact with the other man's sticky, warm flesh, he could feel the particular tingle of growth and rapidly redirecting blood. The Brazilian could feel two sets of leering eyes on him as he penetrated. Nicholai yelped noisily with the intrusion, delighted giggles erupting from Murphy and Mikhail with the display of pain.

The first few thrusts were sloppy, haphazard attempts at positioning himself. Carlos framed himself over Nicholai again, propping himself on both forearms against the floor. He wanted to be closer to the other man, not simply rutting away between his legs like Murphy had been -- but he knew it was absurd to try to manufacture a simulacrum of intimacy in such a brutal moment. The kiss he planted against Nicholai's cheek, still blossoming a bruise from Murphy's beating, was entirely involuntary and filled him with grief him the moment he pulled away.

It had been all he'd ever wanted to do, the two having had exchanged no more than tender hand touching and occasional fingertip dancing along each other's jaw. 

"I'm so so--"

"Save it." The snap was quick, harsh, breathy, _deserved_.

It was difficult for the Brazilian to finish successfully, only able to achieve some semblance of pleasure once he looked away from Nicholai's pain and sorrow-filled face, casting his attention upon the floor beside his ear. Carlos imagined he was anywhere else. The floor beneath his knees was a beautiful, grassy pasture. The man beneath him was enjoying it. The whimpers were moans.

The guilt that accompanied his robotic climax was immediate, penetrating, abusive. Carlos withdrew as soon as he could physically manage it, kneeling away from Nicholai's body and tucking himself away in quiet anxiety. 

"Untie... me." 

Carlos felt shame well up in his chest when he first looked at Mikhail for permission, immediately working at the ropes the moment the Captain shot him a curt nod. Frustration beat through him as the knots resisted loosening, fingers frantically pulling at the rope until it was slackened and casting it aside.

Nicholai's legs were covered in indents from the weaved pattern that had been tied across his thighs and calves, skin a tinge of purple characteristic of a lack of circulation. The older man slowly parted the flesh, the sticky sound of sweat-coated skin pulling apart audible as he slowly stretched out the tired, numb limbs. He sat up with a whimper, waiting in silence for feeling to return to his legs. His eyes were cast down into his hips, refusing to return Carlos' gaze for even a moment.

The Brazilian was still kneeling beside him, mouth twitching with words he wanted to say but knew he shouldn't. 

"Excellent job, as always, Carlos." 

Mikhail's words felt empty and distorted. 

The Sergeant struggled to his feet, first having to turn onto his knees before slowly stepping up onto shaky legs. He haphazardly dressed in silence, not bothering to put on his underwear or shirt, simply pulling his pants on and wrapping his jacket around his naked chest with whatever haste he could muster. He collected the rest of his clothes under his arm, picking up his boots and carrying them as he left the office without another word, obviously suppressing a slight limp.

Murphy and the Captain were idly chatting behind him. Carlos could hear the clink of glasses and glug of liquor as Mikhail poured them vodka. He knew he was being invited, but couldn't bring himself to rise from the floor, staring at the ropes that were bundled up before his knees. 

"Carlos, come on, dude." Murphy rolled his eyes when the other man didn't respond to Mikhail's offer of a drink. 

The Captain sighed, taking a sip of his own vodka and watching the listless form that had been made of the normally jubilant Brazilian. 

"There are bigger things to worry about than Sergeant Zinoviev being righteously put in his place." He shrugged, "A mission may be coming up soon. Raccoon City. I was telling Murphy the failsafes in the Birkin labs are under strain and we've been given forewarning."

Carlos didn't respond. The bundle of ropes was speaking to him, hissing like snakes. 

"Everyone gets what they deserve in this world, Carlos." Mikhail took another swig of his vodka. 

The young man nodded as the snakes transmuted back into jute rope, casting a glance over his shoulder with a cryptic mutter. 

"And so will we."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations!
> 
> Udivitel'no = Incredible.
> 
> ~
> 
> Oh dear. What a chapter. 
> 
> What an end! I don't imagine I will write another chapter in this ALREADY SUPER EXTENDED piece. But I hope you enjoyed how it ended, and the... suggestion of how that night may have impacted Nick's actions in Raccoon City.


	5. A different kind of quiet (PART 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mikhail goes to Sergei with an admission.

It had been a risk. A gamble. A little jaunt with danger. A bit of excitement.

Mikhail knew sending Colonel Vladimir the photos could have backfired tremendously. But for whatever reason, he simply did not care. 

He began to realise that a certain numbness had overtaken him -- one he was somewhat concerned about, but not enough to address. His _trysts_ with a human at his total mercy had enabled him to release tensions he had bottled up for years. He had aways been the quiet one, the polite one, the caring one, the paternalistic one; taking the battles of life and war on the chin in humble silence, like his devoutly-religious mother had taught him. 

Turning the other cheek, laughing along, putting others first with a smile. 

And he was _sick_ of it.

Nicholai was the perfect release. Everything he hated in one person -- the arrogance, the greed, the hatred, the achievement of power and privilege without deserving. Sure, he was a good soldier, but Mikhail knew far better. Ones whose selflessness impeded them from the bounties Nicholai had managed to accumulate for himself by being a selfish, wicked man. Punishing him had been a catharsis -- a kind of therapy. 

The corner of the polaroid _clicked_ loudly as it was tapped it on the desk, breaking Mikhail out of the silent, simple stupor he had hypnotised himself into with thought. 

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

It was a methodic rhythm that was intersected by the man holding it casting tiny, tepid glances down towards it. The corners of his lips would twitch in a suppressed smile every time he took it in. 

"I must admit... I never expected this from someone like you... _comrade_." 

Sergei had a deep, rolling voice and a thicker accent than he did. One Mikhail had only heard in conference calls and phone messages. In person, it was significantly more predatory -- slowly dripping from his scarred lips like honey running down a porcelain pot. 

"Someone like me?" Mikhail cocked his head to the side.

Sergei chuckled, dropping the photo he had been holding onto his desk, where it joined a small pile of similar polaroids. 

"You are the UBCS sweetheart. I hear so many _good_ things from our men." He sighed, "And you are always so quiet at the board meetings. So professional."

Mikhail moved to speak, but Sergei lifted a finger, quickly silencing him. 

"One moment." He turned his head to the side, " _Vanya_! _Prinesi vodku_!"

Mikhail's gaze was shifted to meet where Sergei had called, eyes sorting their way through the dark hall menacingly beaming in through Sergei's open office door. 

Footsteps began to echo, nearing closer and closer. Loud, steady boots on the porcelain. Mikhail easily identified two sets, but both were striding in tandem. 

Suddenly, two tall, white-coated figures emerged through the doorway, Mikhail's lips gaping and eyes widening immediately as he saw them cut into the light. 

"Mikhail, this is Ivan. Ivan this is Mikhail." Sergei said quickly and quaintly, hand outreached in a silent direction for the tyrants to come closer. The Captain noticed one was holding a rather large bottle of vodka. It passed the bottle to Sergei silently, gaze combing over the smaller man with an alien click and purr.

"O-oh..."

Sergei had reached down into one of his desk drawers to retrieve two short _stopka_ glasses, setting one in front of his guest. 

"Do not worry, they are my harmless boys." Sergei purred, immediately pouring them both a drink. The tyrants had moved around to his side of the desk, and were now standing on either side of his shoulder, arms crossed behind their backs stoically. 

"They are... bio-organic weapons?"

" _Da_." Sergei waved his hand dismissively, "Please drink."

Mikhail picked up his vodka glass, but didn't break eye contact with the two, tremendous beasts now standing behind Sergei. They were watching him through coloured glass, blank eyes just barely visible through the glare. 

Sergei threw his shot back, gasping contently as the vodka burn leached through his throat. "Back to this..." He said, prodding the photos with a finger, "Of course I have known something had been happening with my _Kolya_ for some time. And, of course, there were all of the marks..."

Mikhail took a tepid sip, eyes snapping back to the Colonel. "So it is true." He said flatly, "You two are... I apologise if I intruded on your..."

" _Nyet_! Don't be." Sergei beamed a smile, refilling his glass, "I would not be a good Soviet if I kept things to myself, now would I? _Delites' s drugimi_."

Sergei folded his arms down on the desk, leaning a bit closer to Mikhail. His voice hushed slightly.

"I just enjoy _fucking_ him, Captain, I have no feelings for him."

Mikhail was somewhat taken aback by the sudden crudeness -- the curse sounding almost improper coming from Sergei's lips. His eyebrow cocked when it was repeated.

"Have you fucked him?"

" _Nyet_."

Sergei's unscarred eye widened in a simulacrum of shock. He scoffed a surprised peep. "Amazing. You do all of this--" He clucked his tongue, lifting his _stopka_ to his mouth again for another drink, "That's like spending hours baking _medovik_ and immediately throwing it away once its done."

Mikhail couldn't contain a giggle at the soft attempt at a joke, shaking his head slowly, "I have a wife."

He could practically hear the Colonel's amusement.

"So you _are_ a good boy." Sergei _tsked_ and sighed loudly in a physical display of mock-annoyance, "You are deviating because you have some righteous cause -- some just punishment you want to dole out -- but not because you are allowing yourself to have _fun_." 

For whatever reason, the words dropped down on him like a lead anvil.

He paused, drink in hand, eyes unblinking. Suddenly, he was staring at nothing -- eyes cutting through to the wall blankly. 

"Look!" Sergei picked up a photo and waved it at him, one that depicted the night he had invited mercenaries to his quarters to rape the bound Sergeant, "You let others have fun! But you won't have any yourself?"

Sergei continued, knowing fully he was digging into a wound. "Sounds like _work_ to me! And why are you putting in all of this _work_ for this... _slut_ you despise so much?"

Mikhail's Adams apple bobbed over the collar of his red sweater, teeth slowly gritting together, tighter and tighter, until he could feel the pressure in his temple.

The Colonel leaned in over the desk again, voice dropping, "Why are you working for him, _Misha_? Why not make _him_ work for _you_?"

 _Tighter_.

"Have you ever had fun, _Misha_?" 

_Tighter_.

"Let's have some fun, comrade."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weeeeew this is going to get disgusting. 
> 
> Gifting to InkNPixieDust as they were the ones who prompted a Russian threesome. At first I was going to make this a standalone, and then I said... heck.


	6. A different kind of quiet (PART 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicholai finds a way to regain control.

Nicholai had taken to considering the weekend escapes to Sergei's quarters to be a getaway. A vacation. A relaxing jaunt.

It was an elopement from the banality of training, the trauma of missions, and the newly-established pain of Mikhail's abuses. 

Sergei would kiss him, hold him, and pepper him with the occasional, superficial praise that made him feel something other than nothing. He knew it was fake, of course, and that Sergei had no love for him beyond a night of pleasure and camaraderie... But it was calm. Warm. Quiet. Hands stroking skin and caressing hair. It was enough to make Nicholai feel wanted, if only for a moment. 

Striding up to his office, Nicholai was almost excited to see the Colonel hovering in the doorway, a small smile creeping across cautious lips. 

He wrapped his arms around the older man's broad shoulders when he was close enough, and Sergei reciprocated. He tangled his fingers in the Colonel's long, silver hair, leaning in and bobbing up for a deep, soft kiss where their lips parted and tongues danced with each other. Nicholai could feel Sergei smirking wider with every passing second, the man's rough, scarred skin tickling his as his cheeks balled.

"What's so funny?" He said softly with an amused sigh once they parted, smiling and licking his lips, "You seem... _happy_..."

Sergei shrugged, body still towering in the frame of the door, blocking the entry to the room behind him. "I'm always happy."

Nicholai's own expression began to falter the longer he stared at the older man. The way the light curled around his face gave it darker contours than it normally had -- ones that made him look predatory, almost malicious. Nicholai immediately suppressed the instinctual screaming his stomach was emitting, meeting it with confusion as to why it was even there.

"Come in, _malysh_." Sergei said casually, turning and stepping into the office.

Something was wrong. 

Stepping into the brightly lit room from the dark halls he had been wandering through forced his eyes to adjust, white spots alighting his vision momentarily. 

And then, he saw _him_.

"What the _**fuck**_ is he doing here?!" Nicholai spat, fury and anxiety welling up in his throat, cutting his voice into shredded pieces. 

Sitting on the dark green leather reading chair, farthest from the door -- Mikhail. The man was casually smoking a cigarette, legs crossed and boot bobbing softly. He met the anger with utter nonchalance, staring the younger man down with a look of giddy excitement. 

" _Misha_ brought me some nice pictures this week, _Kolya_." 

Nicholai's head snapped around to meet the jeer, eyes wide and franticly flicking between Sergei and the door that was now closing -- the Ivan twins stepping through the threshold of the room and slamming it behind them. 

"You looked so pretty in them." Sergei continued, stalking up to the younger man with the smirk that hadn't softened at all since he'd arrived. "You should have told me you were getting worked over so well."

"N-no... _Seryozha_..." Nicholai hated how his voice was trembling. He hated how frantic and panicked he looked. He hated all of it -- but none of it could be helped. He grabbed at Sergei's sleeve, tugging on the fabric like a lost child at a stranger, " _Seryozha_. Please."

Sergei pointedly ignored his protests, pouting sarcastically and attempting an innocent look, "Whatever is wrong, _Kolya_?" He mewed, "You seem so upset."

Nicholai peeped a pathetic whimper, head shaking slowly as he found himself unable to process the sudden coldness in the room. 

"Comrade Mikhail has been so good to you." Sergei beamed, pointing at the other man who was finishing up his cigarette in amused silence, "He's been working hard to teach you some important lessons, and how have you repaid him?"

Nicholai felt himself seething, lungs swelling with heavy, noxious air that didn't quite make it into his ice-cold blood. He felt light-headed, almost unable to believe what had become of what was supposed to be his escape.

"He-- He does horrible things to me! Why do you not care?!" Nicholai screeched, fists clenching at his side anxiously, nails biting into the flesh of his palm. 

"Horrible?" Sergei mewed, seeming almost taken aback. " _Horrible_ was what that _Olivera_ was trying to do to you."

Mikhail's ears perked up into attention as he heard Carlos' name mentioned. He remembered the night, almost one month ago, when Carlos and Murphy had participated in a defilement. He remembered the heated exchange between the two boys -- one which suggested Carlos had long been carrying feelings for the Sergeant. He had given some thought to what had ever become of them.

Sergei continued slowly, smirk falling into a twitching snarl, " _Horrible_ was how he tried to make you **_soft_** with pathetic notions of puppy love -- confusing you about how life is supposed to be." He leaned closely to the younger man, bowing his head slightly to shorten their height gap, "How _your_ life is supposed to be."

Nicholai yelped when one of Sergei's rough hands darted up and grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling him close and forcing his head back with a painful jerk. 

"I am so very disappointed in you..." Sergei hissed quietly, "Causing trouble at the base? Disrespecting authority? _Misha_ has been so kind to try and help you learn your place and how have you repaid him?"

Nicholai's eye twitched under the sharp pangs of pain emanating from his scalp. He wanted to strike out at Sergei -- to try and run and escape before the inevitable happened. But a part of him was frozen with disbelief and fear. 

In the moment of silent, sickened indecisiveness, Sergei pushed him roughly, tossing him with ease and letting him fall a foot from Mikhail's chair. 

"Don't be _selfish_ , _Kolya_." Sergei's smirk returned as he sneered down at him, "Say _thank you_ to our friend."

Nicholai felt his lip trembling, cheek twitching, jaw clenching in righteous indignation. He cast a glance to his left to stare at the other man, who was still smugly sitting on the chair, snuffing out his diminished cigarette casually. 

"Things are only going to get worse for you if you don't listen." Mikhail said, not even bothering to look at the younger man sitting up on the floor, "You're not stupid. You know that."

Nicholai emitted a ragged sound somewhere between a scoff and a sob, hands kneading the carpet below. He was furious at himself for feeling the pinpricks poking at the inner corners of his eyes, unsure of why he had expected anything different from Sergei. The man was as ruthless as a wolf -- but, for a fleeting moment in time, Nicholai had thought they had shared something akin to intimacy. When the Colonel had demanded he had stopped seeing Carlos, Nicholai had foolishly assumed it might have been because the older man had wanted him. 

_Fucking idiot!_ Nicholai thought to himself bitterly, quickly caught out of his self-pitying thoughts by a deep, forceful demand.

"Well?" Sergei said, crossing his arms.

"T-thank y-you." Nicholai hissed through clenched teeth, nostrils flaring in outrage. Mikhail giggled, fully entertained, sitting back in his chair and declining a further response as Sergei continued to lead the charge. 

Sergei rolled his unscarred eye in annoyance, dropping his arms to his side, " _ **Nyet**_. You don't sound very thankful. Get on your knees in front of him and say it _properly_."

Feeling a sense of disassociation slip over him, like it had so many times before with Mikhail, Nicholai turned slowly until he was able to sit back on his knees. His eyes were cast firmly down at the carpet between Mikhail's boots, Adams apple bobbing frantically as he tried to moisten his bone-dry throat. 

"Thank you."

" ** _Look at him when you say it!_** " Sergei snapped from behind him. 

His nose twitched in disgust when his eyes, glassy with humiliation, flicked up to stare into Mikhail's. There was nothing but cruelty there -- perhaps a bit of utter disdain or disgust of his own. The Captain grinned derisively at him, 

"Thank... You."

"Good." Sergei sighed contently, crouching down beside the younger man and cocking his head towards him. His voice softened, "Now, how are you going to show him just how thankful you are?"

Nicholai had always been perversely, oddly grateful Mikhail had never fucked him. While the older man had invited others to do the deed as proxies, Mikhail had never himself touched Nicholai sexually nor expressed a desire to that he'd have to resist. Now, Nicholai could just faintly see the outline of hardness contouring through the dark green of Mikhail's pants, jaw clenching tightly in response. 

Sergei leaned closely to him, lips brushing his ear in a sudden touch that made Nicholai shudder.

"Suck him like you suck me." He purred, "You've always been so good at it. It's why I always look forward to your visits..."

Nicholai felt a shudder creep across his shoulders. Slowly and with an anger-furrowed brow, he reached out and began to unbuckle Mikhail's fatigue pants, lips still trembling with furious words he realised he was too afraid to say. He'd never felt so small and weak in his life. 

Sergei rose to his feet, a content expression on his scarred face.

"I'll leave you boys alone. I have to... go retrieve something for our evening." He tapped Nicholai's back with the toe of his boot a few times until the younger man snapped a look at him, midway through unzipping Mikhail's fly. "Don't let me down, _malysh_!"

The sound of the door closing and latching complimented the soft _click_ and _clink_ of buckles Mikhail's belt made. Once free, the fabric easily fell open into a wider part, letting Nicholai see the dark grey colour of his briefs. 

"I don't want to do this. You are m-making me d--" He began to mumble stupidly, reaching into the fabric and gently grabbing at the half-hard cock that had been growing there. But a thought suddenly trickled through his temples when he caught sight of Mikhail's hand tightly squeezing the leather arm of the chair.

Suddenly, a memory from one month ago electrified that cunning part of his mind that had rescued him time-and-time again in life and battle. 

_I have a wife!_ Mikhail had jeered at him, while ardently denying he'd had any _faggoty_ sexual interest whatever despite having undressed the younger man every time he'd been in his office.

Nicholai paused for the briefest moment, licking his lips and considering the thought. 

A way to regain a bit of power -- the opportunity had presented itself, as unsavoury as it was. 

"Oh..." He began, rubbing his lips together for a moment and steeling himself, allowing a mask of smugness to fall over his flushed features, "You have a bigger cock than I thought you would have."

He freed it from the material, flicking his eyes up at the Captain to take in the faltering expression of dominant amusement. Their eyes met. 

"I like big cocks." Nicholai dropped his voice to a purr. Immediately, it had an effect on Mikhail, whose brow furrowed slightly at the expression of anything but fear and anxiety. 

He began to stroke his palm over the warm, tight flesh, kneading the organ with his fingers until he heard a soft, deep breath rattle though Mikhail's nose. 

"Ah... It is getting even harder." He smiled, leaning forward and letting his tongue roll from his lips. The moment it touched the erection, Mikhail immediately let out the smallest suppressed gasp. 

Nicholai ran his tongue over the fat head, flicking the tip at the slit expertly. His hand continued to massage the shaft, pushing and pulling the skin, squeezing and releasing it gently. 

Slowly, his lips enveloped the glans, tiny, firm sucks eliciting the first moan from the older man. Mikhail's grip on the arm of the chair became tighter, Nicholai noticed through the corner of his eye. 

_I've got you, you fucker._

He pushed his head down, cheeks hollowing as the sucks became firmer and firmer, tighter and tighter. He let his saliva wash over the erection, moistening it and making it easier to begin bobbing his head in shallow, quick pushes. When his tongue began to roll around the erection in his mouth, Mikhail's hips buckled forward, fully sheathing himself inside the tight, warm entrance that was provoking him. 

Nicholai gasped a bit, choking momentarily as the cock was thrust into his throat. He backed off, letting it slip from his mouth, to catch a breath. Taking Mikhail's face in again, the man's face had been tickled a cute shade of pink. Nicholai licked his lips seductively while looking up at him.

"Don't be so rough with me..." He pouted, leaning towards Mikhail's cock again, "I am delicate."

He wrapped his lips around the now-moistened head, letting his tongue dance along the tip until he could taste salty pearls leak into his mouth. 

Nicholai hummed contently, swallowing loudly and looking up at Mikhail to measure his response. The older man's eyes were clenched shut, cheeks now a beet-red. Breathy pants were now groaning from his parted lips, excited quivers wracking his body sporadically. 

He pulled away again, deciding it was time to dig a cavernous wound.

"You seem to enjoy this, _Misha_..!" Nicholai mewed, "I wonder if I am better at sucking your cock than your wife..."

Mikhail's eyes shot open, the older man sucking a breath through his teeth. Immediately, he looked upset -- but so flushed and hazy with lust he was unable to do anything. 

It was _perfect_.

"What di-id y-you s-say... You f--ff..." He attempted a growl, but Nicholai simply smirked at the weakened repose.

"I said... I wonder if I am better... at sucking your cock... **_than your wife_**." He spoke slowly, a grin peeling its way across his lips as he intersected his words with firm, kneading squeezes of the shaft still in his head. 

Mikhail groaned at the pressure, cum leaking over Nicholai's fingers as it began to drip steadily from the head. 

"Does she _even_ suck your cock, _Misha_?" Nicholai continued, knowing fully he had control of the situation, "I bet she neglects you! Awh!"

He lapped at the cum for a moment, prompting more moans. He squeezed and stroked, this time palm running over the shaft from top to bottom over and over as he continued to speak.

"I bet when you go home you'll want her to suck you like I did." He grinned, "Like some _young man_ did."

Just as Mikhail was going to protest, he enveloped his cock in his mouth once again, sliding it all the way in until it hit the back of his throat. Mikhail's half-formed words faded into a moan of delight, the rings of Nicholai's muscular neck tightening around the intrusion giddily. 

The cum and saliva in his mouth squelched loudly with every long, slow pass over the trembling erection. He kept his eyes locked up at Mikhail, delighting in the way the older man was rapidly becoming undone. 

Between the filthy sucking noises and taste of cum, Nicholai found himself actually enjoying the forced debauchery. He bobbed and hummed happily, hands wrapping their way around Mikhail's thighs and running over the fabric of his pants. He slurped down every drop of cum drooling from the now-quivering cock, knowing the older man was close. 

He increased the speed and pressure of his sucks, hollowing his cheeks around the member and twisting his head slightly as he pushed in and pulled away. When he felt a hand snake through his hair, he stopped, forcing the erection into him as deeply as he could, burying his nose in Mikhail's hips.

_I won._

Sticky, salty cum poured into his stomach, the Captain emitting a loud, ragged yelp of delight as he climaxed. 

_I won._

Nicholai loudly swallowed and slurped, grinning around the erection as he lifted his head, dragging his lips up so as to collect every wayward drop his throat hadn't absorbed. 

Mikhail was laying back in the chair, reddened face clammy with a sheen of thin sweat. His eyes were closed, composure entirely deflated. When his lids fluttered open, he saw Nicholai perversely licking his lips, dragging a finger up his chin to collect the cum-laced saliva that had drooled from him. 

Mild annoyance welled up in the older man's chest as he watched Nicholai act like a cat who had finally caught a mouse, but he was far too exhausted and hazy to lash out.

Just then, the sound of a key rattling in the handle broke both of their focus, Nicholai turning slowly to watch Sergei opening the door with a giddy, dumb smile. 

The Colonel assessed the scene for a moment, seeming contented with what he saw, but Nicholai simply rubbed his swollen lips together, staring his _former_ -friend down with a lusty, self-assured gaze.

_Round two._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELP LOOKS LIKE THERE'S GOING TO BE ANOTHER CHAPTER. SORRY ABOUT THAT. 
> 
> Nicholai really pulled a "hit or miss" in this one.
> 
> It's going to get more smutty and worse.

**Author's Note:**

> *Insert 2 minute reel of Barry saying "what IS this?"*
> 
> .... 
> 
> Why am I always doing horrible things to Nicholai?
> 
> I think we all enjoy taking characters and transforming them, or layering them. With Nicholai, I love giving him vulnerabilities, anxieties, fears, etc... Same with a lot of the great writers on AO3 that I have grown to love to much. But this is almost the inverse of Nicholai -- taking a pure, innocent, delicate character and making him harsher and... worse. lmfao
> 
> I wanted to try and do a dark/evil!Mikhail that was not an AU. Just challenging myself to convincingly work some evilness into his character and see what happens. That was after some discussion with the lovely FanFicReader01. 
> 
> Did I succeed in my quest?? Let me know!


End file.
